


Trust is So Very Hard to Find in Gotham

by Pilate



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Caretaker Edward Nygma, Ed is a bastard but he kinda pays for it I promise, Episode s04e15, Humiliation, Hurt Oswald Cobblepot, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rape Recovery, Slight Medical Kink, Tags to be added along the road, Violence, a bit of, goes awry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilate/pseuds/Pilate
Summary: Ed, or is he the Riddler now, is not yet satisfied with his revenge. So after getting Penguin out of Arkham Ed has very different plans for him. But he doesn't expect what happens, and now it is all a total mess.*Everything was not like it supposed to be.There supposed to be rage, and enjoyment, and gratification, and closure.He felt none of that.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 55
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a native speaker, so sorry in advance for the whole bunch of stupid mistakes, guys. But this thing just started to write itself, and it is so much fun. Still I really hope you enjoy it!

Everything was not like it supposed to be.

There supposed to be rage, and enjoyment, and gratification, and closure.

He felt none of that.

The conviction, however, was enough to carry him this far. After Arkham escape he took Penguin to what he said was a safe house. There he hit him in the head. He locked him down in the basement. He showed up later, victorious grin all over his face, to go through the plan he nurtured for oh so long. Penguin had to regret staying alive. He had no right to. Not when Ed killed him, threw him into the water and even Penguin's voice he casted away from his head. Penguin was dead. Except that he was not. And it was such a violation of order that the thought alone made Ed shiver from that specific, too familiar feel of loathing which occurred when things was not quite in place, not according the precise scheme he needed them to be. That drew him insane. It never stopped. For that Penguin had to pay, even if it meant Ed had to pull him out of Arkham to execute his revenge. He sticked to their agreement though, for the time being, but once they were both out of their cages, again, the agreement was no more.

That is why Penguin's question caught him slightly off guard.

"Is Martin even really safe?" He asked, voice low and despite all circumstances filled with such danger that his habitual screaming would not begin to compare to.

And the circumstances were that he was prostrated on the floor, panting, and already beaten up with a stick to more than considerable extent. Some knife play, too. Couple of broken ribs, for sure, blood all over the face and shirt, bruises flowering red on the neck.

Riddler blinked.

Not that he did not enjoy the terror he could see hidden behind the hatred in green Penguin's eyes, but fair is fair.

"Of course he is. _I stick to the deal_ , Oswald. And no, it's not any use for me to lie now, all things considered. The boy is okay. You, on the other hand, are _not_. I'm going to break you!"

Another hit, another yelp through gritted teeth. He is going to take this slow. Nothing too gory, though. Not yet. Penguin had to stay conscious for the whole of this.

He does not take execution silently, nor does Ed want him to. Oh he wants to hear all the curses, and isn't it a part of fun? All in fun.

Though curses are just curses, of course, and yet there was something more, something disturbing in the way Penguin behaved. Lying there shattered, as he did, he still held himself like he was one in control, making dry comments with that infuriating, a little tired mentor tone, guiding Ed trough the torture as if instructing him how to perform one, as if they once again were in Ed's apartment having their way with Mr. Leonard, and Ed still had so much to learn from him.

"You..." Hit. "Will learn..." Hit. "Your place..." And another. "Before you die!"

Ed picked up a steady pace extracting those muffled screams Penguin tried and could not hold. He stopped after a while, having a break. And there was that creaky sound which could only be a hardened try of laughter.

"Now, now, _Ed_ , and what place would that be, exactly? One of a man you are _fixated_ upon?" His words dripped with cold, well-calculated venom, voice hoarse through pain. "Because from where I sit, it seems you still don't know how to _be you_ , you cannot own your personality, not without crutches of some sorts, which happen to be myself. After all this time of that ridiculous Riddler business you still can't make it by your own, still so desperate to prove something to _me_. You just don't have in you, I suppose."

He tensed, awaiting for another blow, which never came. Ed just stood there instead, letting Penguin's tirade soak in him, feeling like he is drowning all of a sudden, trying to reach for something steady he could cling to, something that will make it _right_. And there it was.

Ed narrowed his eyes, and let himself smile.

"Oh, Oswald. Isn't it the place where you tell me that I need you? Is that something you are trying to convince yourself in? But the truth is, the only person _needy_ here is you."

Of course that hit the right place. The Riddler could see it, like an instant shadow over Penguin's face, the way his look froze just for a moment, the way his mouth tightened a bit. But that was just a start. Ed felt himself lucid, his head completely clear and full with thrill of what he was going to do next.

"Stand up."

Slowly and with difficulty, careful not to whimper occasionally from pain, Penguin complied, his gaze attentive and highly alert, fixed on Edward. Then he was on his feet, shaky.

"You wanna talk need, right? Well, you know better than me what it is that you need from me, Oswald. Isn't that so? And that, generous as I am, I am gonna give you."

He held a pause, letting words sink in. And didn't they just.

Penguin swayed a little like his legs were going to let him down. His eyes widened with disbelief, lips parted for a second and then tightened into a very straight line, slightly bending down at the edges, his face becoming a mask of pure grief.

Ed savored the moment.

"To the wall", he said.

Silent and obedient, uncharacteristically so, Penguin took a few unsteady steps back and leaned his back heavily against the wall. He dropped his eyes down.

This stroke Edward as somewhat off-key, but he waved the thought away. He will not let anything spoil his perfect victory, his long-anticipated revenge over this sad joke of a man. The man who claimed to know him so well but clearly didn't expect this, could never comprehend the magnitude of The Riddler.

"Lose the pants. All of it."

Penguin did that, too, first pants, then underwear, as best as he could with tied arms, his moves clumsy and constrained. He didn't say a word, which began to irritate Edward, who waited for him to hiss and spit, lose himself to blind frenzy. Instead was this. This seemed a smidge too easy.

"Now are you ready for some love, my little Cobblepot?" Ed took a step forward, trying to override growing discontent.

But a second passed, and then he knew, instantly and without a doubt. Something was wrong.

It all was wrong.

It was nothing like he thought it would be.

Then he realized that Oswald was crying.

Proud, ferocious Oswald, standing there, half-naked and stripped of any dignity, swallowing a cascade of tears without a sound, looking down, bitterly and inconsolably. His dark hear sticked to the sweaty forehead.

Any vicious joy Riddler was supposed to feel from that pathetic sight, he felt not.

Instead you have to say he felt panic.

The room all but started spinning, all air seemingly gone away, and Edward hadn't the faintest idea what to say next, or what to do. His wrath disappeared into the wind, leaving him empty, with all his insides tightened as a knot.

He thought of nothing better than immediately retreat from the room, which he did in an indecent rush.

*

Ed Nygma found himself in a very weird place.

It was all so clear, so simple, and suddenly everything was a total mess.

Frankly, he wasn't even sure why the turn of events disturbed him that much. It's not like he didn't see Oswald cry before. He was crying that day on a pier, pleading for Ed not to kill him, and that didn't stop him in the slightest. How is now was so different?

Ed remembered Oswald reaching for him with tied hands, which he slapped away, coming up with excuses and arguments and what-not, desperately trying every trick he could think of to manipulate him into mercy. That was exactly what Oswald was, he would keep talking to his last breath for the chance of survival.

That silent obedience was something new, something aberrant and uncanny. Though Oswald knew, no doubt, in what line things were going to happen. Yet not only wasn't he furious, or scandalized, he did absolutely nothing to defend himself. Like he accepted it from the second he understood a threat. He just stood there, exposed and helpless, eyes down, simply waiting for the next step.

That wasn't Oswald.

And any thoughts Ed had of making him beg to stop, making him repeat the name Riddler again, were instantly depraved of any sweetness, leaving a bitter taste instead.

Oswald's quiet submission revolted Ed and made him feel deeply uneasy, especially the fact that he was a cause of it and its subject.

He was responsible for it.

He didn't know where to go from this.

Without really hoping to, Ed searched himself for that familiar pressing urge to make Oswald suffer for everything he did, and found none at all.

This was inconvenient.

Because Oswald was still very much there, in the basement, he was hurt and his fate entirely depended on Ed.

The plan was, of course, to kill the man once he is finished with torture, and he was entirely aware that was now the case. Leaving Penguin alive was not really even an option at this stage, not ever will he forgive this pain and humiliation. But in the state Oswald was, Ed could just kick him out to the street, and Falcone's men would quickly put an end to it.

Ed felt so conflicted, he almost expected for the Riddler to show up, until he remembered, that _he was_ the Riddler. And Oswald was the one who set him free. For his own purposes, of course. Not that he ever liked the name. Or respected it.

There was never a middle way with Oswald, you were either with him, or against him.

It was inevitable, then.

Edward groaned, and run fingers through his hair, his one and only option becoming more obvious to him with every second.

He had to do it, and it was not going to be pleasant.

How on earth did he end up here.

*

When Ed reluctantly opened a door to the basement at last, Oswald was half-lying on his back in the corner, holding himself by the shoulders, once again fully dressed in his Arkham uniform. He raised his head slightly to the sound, but otherwise didn't move, or say anything. His glare was empty and distant when it met Edward's. Few hours had passed since their last interaction. Ed had to fix a few things and run some errands after the decision was made.

Now was the time for a particularly tough part.

Ed didn't know exactly how it all will go, but he did figure a plan, of course. He just knew he wasn't going to like any of it. But sometimes you just had to make a choice and face the consequences. That's what he saw when he looked at Oswald now. Consequences.

"Get up, Oswald", Ed managed to utter. "You are going out of here".

And so he did, clinging to the wall. Ed opened up the door, inviting him to step out first.

"Upstairs", he said.

There was possible something else he could say, some kind of reassurance, but he couldn't bring himself to it, so he simply delivered his instructions, and Oswald showed no sign of defiance, limping unsteadily to the stairs.

The stairs was going to be a problem, Ed knew it in advance, yet he couldn't help himself feeling unsettled by the way Oswald leaned heavily on a railing, progressing almost unbearably slowly, every step a hard win. The thought of offering help crossed Ed's mind, but he made up a couple simple rules for himself earlier, so no, he wouldn’t do it, even if he wanted, and he wanted. This last thing surprised him, not to say how did annoy, and he tried to remind himself of where Oswald's injuries came from, to start with, of his own dedication to produce them. But that was a battle already lost, and he knew it. So Ed just followed cautiously Oswald's pace, listening to his labored breathing and occasional painful sounds.

He contemplated a thought that this was all some kind of designed act, but he didn't actually believe that. Nevertheless, at any moment now Oswald could do anything, really. The Penguin was extremely dangerous, and particularly dangerous when in despair. That Ed didn't let himself forget for a minute. He did his preparations, locking the door and putting away everything which even barely could serve as a weapon, with quite meticulous consideration.

He guided Oswald to the single room of the studio apartment and showed him to the bed.

"Take the bed. Make yourself comfortable, I guess."

"So this is how we're doing it." This was a first time Oswald spoke in a while, his voice creaky and quiet, entirely unemotional.

Edward found himself staring blankly in return, failing to grasp the meaning of words, and the hidden implication. Until he did.

"Wha— No. We are not doing... anything."

God, how much easier it would have been if he could just sedate Oswald, as he did a lifetime ago after he found him dying in the forest. But this time everything was different. He couldn’t afford that kind of liberty anymore. The hard way it is.

“No, it’s just...” He found himself stumbling upon words. He casted his eyes down, though that probably wasn’t wise, and forced himself to speak, keeping his voice even. “It’s just for you, to rest. If you want. You can leave, though I wouldn’t advise it for now. No one knows about this place, no one knows you are here, it’s, ehm, well, safe.” Very convincing, Edward. “You can regroup and plan, while in the city the possibility that Falcone’s goons will find you is incredibly high. There are some clean clothes, what I could find on a short notice.” Check. “You can use the shower.” Check. “There is a medical kit.” Check. "I am not killing you." Check.

That’d be all.

When Edward finished his speech and dared to look at Oswald, the man’s eyes were piercing and sharp, expression unreadable. There was an awkward silence between them Edward wasn’t sure for how long, but it seemed forever. Then Oswald lips oddly curved, his nose wrinkled and he burst in a croak of bitter manic laugh. Or rather he tried to. The next second he choked on it, making a high-pitch whimper and folding in half, pressing his hands where the broken ribs should be. He coughed painfully and gasped for breath, his face turning completely red. He broke into a fall, and before Ed even registered what he was doing, he was already beside Oswald, grasping him under his arms.

And here goes his decision to keep distance at all costs.

He realized his mistake in the same instance. In the second one he realized his another mistake, and cursed himself for stupidity. Because as soon as Oswald was steady enough to make a couple of breaths and become aware of his position, he threw himself out to the bed with an unexpected strength.

And there was it. They both spotted it at the same time, a glass of water, thoughtfully and so incautiously placed at a night stand.

Edward, you damn imbecile.

Oswald reached for the glass and smashed it on an edge of a night stand, Ed pulled back, counting down the seconds he gets to live, but Oswald surprisingly didn't jump at him to split his throat open. Instead he pressed his back to the headboard, his arm with a broken sharp glass before him in a threating, protective gesture, his chin raised, and hissed:

"Don't you EVER presume to touch me again, or I swear, I..!"

The request sounded rather comical, addressed to a man, who had just beaten the tar out of him, but that was Oswald for you. Ed had to suppress nervous chuckle, even while his mind was hurriedly calculating the next step.

Then Oswald, however, interrupted in the middle of the phrase, his lips parted helplessly, as he obviously struggled to inhale. His face was a sheer dread, his body trembled.

"I can't—", he barely managed. Oswald looked at Ed with wide glittering eyes, completely lost, as if Ed was his last hope in the world, and this was just too much for one day.

Freaking great.

Ed knew the panic attack when he saw one.

"Oswald", he said very firmly. He didn't make an attempt to move towards Oswald, not to provoke him any further. "Sure you can. And I am gonna prove it to you. But I need you to do exactly as I say. Oswald, please, I need you to confirm that you heard me now."

A slight nod, a couple of heavy tears, continuing gasps.

"It is an illusion. It is just uncomfortable for you to breathe due to your broken ribs, but you still can. You still _do_. It is a panic attack".

"I am _dying_."

"No, you are not." Ed tried his best to sound absolutely calm. "Now, Oswald. I need you to close your eyes and listen to my breath." Not really having any choice, he very slowly took a few steps forward and sat on the edge of the bed, still very careful not to invade into Oswald's space. Oswald didn't seem to really notice. "Did you hear me?"

"Oh so you... _can_ breathe..." A sob. "Go on... brag about it!"

"Focus, Oswald. I promise, it will work. You are alright. Listen very closely. Do it for me now, okay?"

Ed will think about his choice of words later. Now, whatever he has to say to make it stop.

Deed inhale. Long exhale.

Repeat. Repeat.

Oswald gave up and closed his eyes.

"Now, try and follow my rhythm. You can do it, Oswald. Take it easy. I know it must hurt. But it's there. Focus on listening to my breath."

And so they sat like this for some time, as if Ed was lulling Oswald to sleep, until Oswald could feel himself breathing again, and his shoulders gradually relaxed.

He opened his eyes and glanced impassively to the blood leaking through his fingers, still squeezing the broken glass.

Now he looked just very, very tired.

Ed sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I am going to untie your arms," he said, looking for Oswald with question and waiting for a nod. After that was done, he went for the kitchen and returned with a medical kit. He noted his own carelessness to turn his back to Oswald, but it was like through some thick transparent wall. He heard himself saying:

"I could take care of your hand, if it's okay." 

There was another nod.

Carefully, almost reverently, Ed started to take out fragment after fragment from Oswald's palm, holding it gently. He didn't entirely understand why it was allowed, and once again he felt how everything was wrong. How he got carried away, again. Oswald didn't as much as winced through the whole thing, his face blank, as if he wasn't even there.

"Oswald... What has happened in Arkham?"

This was too soon, too straightforward, and, honestly, to his own horror. Ed braced himself for another crying fit. But it didn't happen. Although Oswald's hand wavered a little, he didn't withdraw it.

"I am not quite sure why you imagine it is any of your damn business." Oswald's voice was struggled and distasteful, but lacked real rancor.

Right. Ed concentrated on taking away another smaller chip of glass.

But that wasn't the end of it, of course it wasn't.

"Didn't you _just_ want to _break_ me?"

Ed could have said "I am sorry", stupid as it would have sound. He didn't embarrass either of them with that. But he almost heard Oswald's reply "No, you're not. You are just surprised someone has already done the job for you."

Unspoken words hanged between them, heavy as concrete.

Funny he still talked with voices in his own head with real, more or less breathing Oswald sitting nearby.

The thought somehow woke him a little.

"Yes", Ed forced himself to say. "I did want you to suffer. And then... Then I knew that I didn’t."

Ed finished the bandaging and raised eyes on Oswald to found no signs that he even heard this poor attempt of explanation. He seemed far away from here, small and frozen, face still wet from tears and stained with blood, gaze hollow. He didn't reply for some time, and Edward wasn't even sure that he will, but waited nevertheless.

"As it happens, Ed," Oswald slowly began at last, not looking at him, voice perfectly measured if exhausted to no end, just a bit louder than a whisper. "I am now suffering immensely from hunger, so I might assume it would be very much in line with your newfound intentions to provide me some dinner".

Suddenly aware that Ed still held his hand, he pulled it briskly away.

" _And_ a drink."

"Will do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued, and pretty soon, cause I am totally possesed by this ship.  
> Please let me know what you think! I will deeply appreciate every comment <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a shorter one, but it is complete, so I decided I'd post it rather than keep you wating.  
> Still writing this at nights instead of sleep:)) Please forgive me any mistakes.  
> Hope you'll like it!

Ed supposed that after what he’s done, he probably deserved what he’s got. All the same, he would be damned if he knew how to get on with it.

Oswald ate. Oswald slept.

He didn’t say a thing after demanding a drink. He swallowed his food and drank his alcohol as if that alone was too much of an effort, and when Ed took the tray away he just slid down in the bed, still in his outrageously messy uniform, covered himself with a blanket above his head, and that was it.

Ed abstained from a commentary and took the couch. Through the night he would wake up repeatedly from long series of excruciating cough, and all he could do was to lie still and pretend he hears nothig.

He almost expected to wake up alone. If at all.

But no, in the morning he was still somewhat regrettably alive, and Oswald was still asleep, with uneasy, troubled sleep, his brows collided in a dramatically long crease. He didn’t look peaceful. And why should he.

Edward listened for a minute to Oswald’s hardened, shallow breathing. Then he tried to shove his _a little_ belated concern about a state of those broken ribs somewhere far off. He had to go to the city and check on the matters with Falcone.

Said matters, meanwhile, got quite interesting.

Heading home later in the evening, Edward couldn’t decide if he looked forward to tell everything to Oswald or hoped that Oswald was already gone and the problem off his shoulders.  
  


No such luck. He found Oswald still sleeping, although the simple lunch that Ed had prepared disappeared from the freezer. If something couldn’t fade away, that was Oswald’s healthy appetite. Well, at least one encouraging thing.

The less encouraging thing was that Oswald didn’t bother to change, and the clothes bought by Ed laid untouched, as did the medical kit. Apparently, Oswald hadn’t found the energy for taking shower or attending to his wounds. Ed frowned, weighing his options.

Knife wounds could easily evoke infection, which could turn out all shades of nasty. There was not a lot Ed could do about the ribs, really, since X-ray or CT-scan were not in the picture. Ed could only tell so much from a superficial examination, not if it was a serious fracture or how severe the damage to internal organs was. Though maybe he could’ve told _something_. For now, judging by the place of injury Ed would say that heart blood vessels had to be intact, fortunately, but a lung could very well be punctured. Ed arranged a little pharmacy robbery and appropriated some pretty strong painkillers. Pills would have to do, since there was no chance for implementing an injection.

Offering physical help was out of the question as well, and the perspective of reasoning with Oswald was downright devastating.

Perhaps, he wasn’t in so much of a danger after all. The number and variety of traumas Oswald endured in the course of his life were truly impressive, yet he managed to get away with it every time. Perhaps this one was no different, and Ed should just drop whatever habit took him over and let Oswald take or not take care of himself as he pleases.

His trail of thought got interrupted by Oswald, who woke up by choking on his breath again.

Once recovered, he glanced absently at Ed, barely acknowledging his presence. Oswald’s face looked no better than before, delicate features disfigured, bruises swollen, lower lip split, eyelids red. Ed felt vexing urge to place a hand on his forehead to check if there was a fever. It would be such a simple thing to do.

“Zsasz is looking for you. He almost got you in Arkham before escape. Gordon is looking for Mr. Penn. Apparently, the rat was working for Falcone the whole time. And Lee, of all people, is looking for Falcone. She is planning revenge. She’s not running the Narrows anymore, Falcone displaced her and crushed her hand with a hammer. You’re oversleeping quite a party out there.”

Ed decided to start with matters at hand. He had a productive day and was rather proud of his intel. Part of him was eager to share in detail how he managed to gather all this, but something told him it won’t be appreciated at the moment. A shame, really.

For someone who has been always obsessed with information, not to mention that his own life was here very much at stake, Oswald didn’t look impressed at all. If that was possible, he looked even more tired.

One thing, however, did obtain a reaction.

“Penn”, he muttered. “He, too.”

“Do you know where he can hide?”

“Spa Bo'sh Sumka, I suppose.” Oswald let out with an utmost indifference, gazing into space. “Resort with special services.”

Then he shot his eyes, visibly and audaciously starting to drift back to sleep.

“Oswald.”

Oswald batted his eyelashes, honoring Ed with inanimate glance.

“You need a plan.”

If Ed wanted to elicit some emotion, he got it then, and it was disgust.

“I think I’ve got more than enough of you deciding what I _need_ , Ed, thank you very much.”

“There is no time.” Ed replied, ignoring the clench in his stomach. At least Oswald was now genuinely involved in the conversation. “It is a matter of days, or maybe hours, who knows, before Zsasz finds this place. We have the upper hand, for now, but not for long. We have to act fast. We have to make something up.”

“And who might be those _us_ you are referring to?” Oswald’s voice became suddenly almost soft, like he was addressing a child, and not very bright one. “Just… go somewhere else. Leave me alone.”

He had a point there. For Ed, the lack of valid argumentation was suffocating. And why _was_ he arguing, again? That wasn’t even close to clear. Nor was it relevant, though, since the decision imposed itself on Ed steadfast and irreversible. Accept the facts, move on to practical outcomes. That’s the most efficient way to solve a problem.

Ed tried to think. This kind of twisted power struggle wasn’t his forte. He wanted to reach Oswald and shake him by the shoulders. It was a clinch. Oswald was stubborn, and he has been damaged in some elusive way, and he was all the more stubborn due to his vulnerability. Logic was powerless; pressure simply wouldn’t do any good. There was nothing Ed could say or do now to get through the resentment, the worst part being that it was only fair. With the pain and the shame of what he did to Oswald, Ed was still amazed to stay alive. Most likely, Oswald will try to fix this omission when feels better. _Hopefully_ , here’s the irony _._ What miserable remains of trust they had kept till yesterday have been now doubtlessly beyond repair. But Ed’s task here wasn’t about this. It was about Oswald.

And he is the Riddler, is he not, he has to figure this out.

“I am not leaving.” I am not leaving _you._ “It’s _my_ safe house. If _you_ want to leave, you have to get yourself together and clean your wounds, for god’s sake.” It was worth a try.

“I am perfectly comfortable here.”

“It won’t last.”

“I don’t _care_.”

 _I_ care _,_ Ed almost snapped. So obvious, so familiar words, coming to him from another life where it was possible to just go and say them. Not possible now. He had no right. Oswald would laugh into his face, and he was in no condition to laugh, they already knew that much.

And not that Ed was at peace with the statement itself.

“Don’t you want to make Falcone pay?” He tried. “Don’t you want to take your city back?”

“I want _you_ to leave me the hell alone!” Oswald’s voice broke. “Why won’t _anyone_ just leave me alone.”

For a moment words seemed to be ready to just gush out from Oswald in a crashing wave, but the moment passed, and he clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of a blanket so that his knuckles turned white.

Ed looked away, bewildered, and there was a pause, necessary for the both parties.

“I’ve brought painkillers.” Edward said at last, keeping his tone almost light, as if it all wasn’t some intricate level of Hell he dragged them into. “They’re strong, but no wine from now on.” He nodded at the empty bottle near the bed, the evidence that Oswald helped himself not only with food.

“You’re nuts thinking I am taking _pills_ from you.”

Tempting as it was, Ed didn’t mention how it would be absurd to poison Oswald now. How Ed already had Oswald where he wanted him, or he _thought_ he wanted, only to let him be. While it might appear a cogent argument, it wasn’t exactly something Oswald needed to be reminded of. One didn’t really have to be Edward Nygma to deduce that. Besides, Ed’s behavior wasn’t in fact _that_ consistent lately. Better not to dwell on it.

“Your choice. But the food was okay, wasn’t it?”

Accepting food was indeed a certain leap of faith from Oswald’s behalf, or maybe a sign of weakness, or both. Or perhaps he was trying to cling to some fleeting ghost of normality, to pretend for a short time that nothing dreadfully wrong was happening. Anyhow, it was a small, but valuable victory. Since those grounds have been conquered, Ed could use them as a base for the next operation. 

He spotted a hint of hesitation on Oswald’s face, so he promptly took a bottle from his pocket and put it on a night stand.

“Four per day is an absolute maximum. I trust you not to overdose here.”

“Now _that’s_ one appealing idea.” Oswald retorted forcedly with a mockery of a smirk. Despite the gloominess, his comment actually released some tension instead of building it.

“Don’t do the work for Victor. He is paid for it, after all.”

Leaving Oswald to gasp for an answer, Ed busied himself with dinner.

He had a plan to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The impossible situation I trapped these guys into turned out to be quite difficult to write, and I try carefully to choose the right tone for the story. I can just hope I managed this time.  
> But your comments and kudos lift my spirits beyond words! A true inspiration to continue. Thank you a lot, everyone! Sending love:)
> 
> TBC soon


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of an intermission focused on Ed's introspection, but an important one. But after this events will start to develop in speed.

Oswald did take the pills after all, judging by the fact that he slept a great deal sounder that night. Ed congratulated himself. He, on the other hand, didn’t really get much sleep. He was scheming. His mind was buzzing with ideas.

There were two very different in methods, but otherwise equally important areas, for which courses of action had to be decided. One was Falcone. The second was Oswald. Or maybe Oswald came first, but if Sofia would not to be dealt with shortly, there will be soon no Oswald left to strategize upon. 

Only to think that couple of days earlier Ed himself intended to kill him, and what is he doing now? The nature of this sudden change of angle remained cryptic to him. There were more urgent matters, so he didn’t have time to put his mind into it properly. For now, he settled with following his inner right-and-wrong compass. It never provided him with much choice in the matters, though the way it was tuned and things it considered right or wrong would leave most people at loss. It had more to deal with the order of things, than something else. If something was out of order Ed felt it in the range from annoying itching on the periphery of his mind to almost physical pain. If it became unbearable enough, he just had to… rearrange things.

Sometimes they were smaller things, like placing objects on a table in perfect geometry or repeating the same routine in the morning, or even dressing the Mayor of Gotham with the most possible elegance. The one Mayor knew better then to dispute his Chief of Staff’s choice of a tie for the day, and treated that genially as a curious quirk. He would knowingly use this same kind of quirk later to lead him to that cursed pier where he would freeze his Chief of Staff, now former as the Mayor himself, in a block of ice.

Well, and sometimes things were not so small. Like that initial necessity to fix Penguin, then to murder Penguin, then for Penguin to be alive, which resulted in the quest of finding a new teacher to replace him, then again to murder him, because the first time didn’t go as planned. And now once more the thought of him being ruined or dead presented itself as hideously unacceptable. If you think about it, Oswald always has been an erratic figure, not fitting in any structure Ed tried to build. The one thing constant about him was his constant _presence_ in Ed’s world.

At least this time Ed managed not to kill him _before_ the weather changed. Although he did enormously screw up other things. But there was something else different about this time, not that Ed could point out what exactly it was. After he got over the first confusion from sparing Oswald, it started to feel like never really did before, like everything fell into place and he finally got it right. Maybe it had to deal with the Riddler coming to his full reign. The Riddler, who was born out of Oswald’s death and came back to Oswald’s call.

Riddler knew that Penguin was shamelessly using Ed’s conflicted state of mind to turn the situation to his own favor, and it wouldn’t be the first time in the least since Riddler came into being. Something that Ed never could see, buying Oswald’s insinuations every damn time. Oswald would use anything to get what he wanted, that’s how it has always been. This time Riddler had the same interests as Oswald, so he played along. Furthermore, it was Riddler’s idea to use Oswald against Ed in the first place. But after it was done, he couldn’t allow Oswald to think he tricked him, again. No one can be allowed to think he can outsmart the Riddler, especially not Oswald. Always thinking he’s such a mastermind, knows Ed so well he can play him around like a puppet. That just wouldn’t stand.

Yet Riddler was so rigidly caught up in his outdated reordering scheme, that he didn’t notice its most obvious flaw. Until he finally got a glimpse on what an actual _absence_ of Oswald might look like. The close perspective of it becoming, again, the permanent fact of his existence made him feel sick in an instant. A reminder of days, weeks spent on hallucinogens.

Without the one person who _saw him_.

So things had to be rearranged.

Didn’t he stop already too late though?

But Oswald was undeniably alive, and Ed’s task was to make sure he stays that way. Among other things.

That returned his a little distracted thoughts from attempts to rationalize his whirlwind of feelings to the main subjects of consideration. 

Okay then. Oswald.

Concentrate.

Oswald, stumbling back to the wall of the basement.

That was the point of no return for Ed, as he could clearly see now. That was the breaking point for Penguin. What happened, exactly?

Why wasn’t he enraged? Why was he compliant and quiet? There was something here. Maybe if Ed could fathom that, he would know how to play this. Oswald has just got out of Arkham. Arkham has many ways to get into your head, Ed of all people knew that too well. After his first stay Oswald came back this childish cretin mumbling that violence is not an answer. But even without Hugo Strange’s little brainwashing factory, Arkham was a place where walls were screaming at you with torment. And still… Ed remembered that meeting when he came there thinking that it was just for the sake of gloating at misery of his former friend, not knowing that Riddler had something different in mind. And oh, did he gloat. He threw in Penguin’s face that he was all alone and watched it falling into deep sorrow.

_I am in insane asylum, being pummeled by lunatics…_

Here Penguin was, telling him this with bitter laugh, as if hoping for some compassion against his best knowledge. He had a black eye, his cheek was split with a cut. So that’s what was happening there? _Pummeling?_ How does someone break the King of Gotham with _pummeling_? Something didn’t add up. Then he remembered Oswald’s desperate, gigantic smile, which lightened brightly his whole pale freckled face with hope when he saw Ed, when they met again right before Riddler was called into action. Oswald saw the man who came to rescue him, not suspecting it was just to lock him up in another trap. Betrayal hurts, even more so if it’s not the first one in a row, and Oswald got his share which lead him again to the loony bin; even more so after the glimpse of a hope already lost. It is not that much of a conundrum. But given their history it couldn’t be _that_ unexpected… Yet maybe _especially_ given their history. And Ed did that deliberately, used Oswald’s weakness for him to destroy the man. Mission accomplished. Congratulations, Mr. Riddler. 

Could that alone be such a blow to send Oswald deep down into this comatose state he was currently in? Obviously the last straw it happened to be. But Ed felt with his guts that there was something missing from the picture.

He saw Oswald loosing himself before, and it filled him then with the same desire to immediately fix it. But that was after the death of his mother-the-saint, for which he blamed himself, surely it was the biggest tragedy in Oswald’s life. That was an utterly understandable situation there. And Ed succeded then. He watched Oswald, he analyzed his behavior, he picked up the clues and provided precisely the right things for Oswald to overcome his grief. If only he had time for this now. He wouldn’t press Oswald in the slightest, he would surround Oswald with those little things that would make him feel safe, slowly and softly and through all the drawbacks he would nurture him back into his sense of self. That was not an option. Not to mention, his position of an assaulter was quite the complication this time, an opposite to a life-savior he was back then. Now he had to do something quick _and_ immediately efficient. This was close to impossible. If only he grasped…

One thing was clear. For Oswald, it had to be about control. Something he always fought tooth and claw to gain, something he lost over and over again. Something one was totally depraved of in Arkham, where your own body doesn’t belong to you.

Oswald, still in his uniform.

While Ed continued to think, something kept bothering him, kept nagging at a verge of his mind. He kept going back to the same picture over and over again.

Oswald, stumbling back to the wall of the basement.

Why wasn’t he fighting? No, that is not the right question.

Why wasn’t he _surprised_?

Here. That’s it.

He reacted as if he somehow _waited_ for this to happen. Almost as if he was prepared and came to terms with it already. And that’s absurd. Unless…

Ed shuddered, while an understanding finally crept its way into his bones.

_Oh, Oswald._

The Falcone’s part of planning was simple enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping that posting shorter parts is okay, I just can't wait to let it out.  
> Please accept my deepest gratitude for the amazing feedback you're giving me on this story.  
> TBC soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say. I was supposed to write another turn of events but instead I wrote this. Aaand I wrote another stupid nygmobblepot in the meantime. Oops. 
> 
> I really hope you'll like it!

He was cold. He was always cold as long as he could remember himself. He lay in the bed, and a dark room around him with long walls dissipating into the black abyss was disturbingly familiar, but he couldn’t point out what room it was exactly. Maybe an Arkham cell, maybe an Ed’s safe house, maybe something entirely different. It didn’t matter after all, as long as he knew with his whole existence what it actually was. His tomb.

He was cold, his whole body tediously ached. If only could he move, just a little bit, to adjust his poor limbs craving for relief, however temporal it might be. But that’s no tomb’s rules.

There was a thick granite slab resting over him, restraining him dead. Or maybe there wasn’t, maybe it was him who was made of stone, why else would he be so heavy, so heavy that even one finger was unbearable to lift.

And then there was somebody else in the room, some indistinct figure, or were they a few, and he wished _there were_ a granite slab between him and them, any barrier, any shield, _anything_ , since the ruthless danger they emitted was palpable. It slithered his way through the pitch-black mire before him, it sucked an air from his burning lungs. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t scream. He was cold.

The unrecognizable horrifying _presence_ was there.

Anytime now it will come to claim him.

As he belongs to it by right, lying here numb, defenseless, pathetic, sinking is his fear, waiting for their _touch_.

And they crawl closer without actually shifting, just appearing to be closer and closer to him with every heartbeat rambling in his ears, the obscure menacing clump intending to hurt him.

It takes all his strength to try and move, or produce a sound, and it’s fruitless, but he keeps trying more and more desperately as their hands reach out for him and grab him and his head explodes with a primal dread he never knew existed.

He woke up in his bed. He was cold.

The room was dark, and now he knew for sure where he was. The figure was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he knew who it was, and he knew what it meant, too. It’s always the same and it’s never the same.

He couldn’t bring himself to move. Why couldn’t he? Why would he though? It _never helps_.

The figure placed a hand on his chest, and it was so heavy he couldn’t breathe. The moment full of suffocating wait of what inevitably happens next, his undoing. His body frail and paralyzed and ready to be taken apart. A fear you can slit a throat with. 

Why couldn’t he move?

He grasped to this thought as if it could save him from drowning.

The figure shifts forward, throwing its weight on him, sloppy hands everywhere on him at once, and he wants to jerk, wants to cry out loud, and he can’t, and drowning he is.

He woke up in his bed. He was cold. Darkness around him.

A figure sitting next to him, still, eyes glowing with cruelty, and it’s Ed, and terror takes him whole, turns him inside out, his body is someone else’s, and there’s no salvation for him, not ever, and Ed places a hand on his shoulder, and the touch burns a hole in his skin like a bullet.

And he screams.

Now he heard it, the sound of his own voice, and it was deafening.

There was still a hand on his shoulder which shook him ever so gently. And a name.

“Oswald. Oswald, wake up! It’s a dream. Oswald!”

Oswald blinked, panting heavily, room slowly coming into focus. The grey light of dawn was breaking through the curtains. The overcoming sense of danger was gradually wearing off. His eyes darted to Ed, struck with a shadow of a panic, and Ed pulled back from him to the end of the bed, withdrawing his hand at once.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. You were having a nightmare.”

Oswald sat up in the bed just to feel his body obeying him once again. His chest stung. He let out an involuntary sob.

“It’s alright. It was a dream. No one here is gonna hurt you.”

The morbid irony of this supposed-to-be-reassurance cut through his fogged mind like a blade. Exhilaration of relief was shortliving as it might, and reality with all its mercilessness didn’t wait to crush back on his shoulders. He was spared from one nightmare just to find himself in another. And he had nowhere to wake up from this one.

Oswald rubbed his eyes, finding that tears were still running. Damn it.

“How _on earth_ do I know that.” He snapped sourly, not having any power for real spite.

He was cold.

It took two seconds for realization to dawn and for Ed’s face to fall into confusion for which Oswald wanted to crush his skull. 

“You’re right”, Ed said after a long awkward pause. “You will see for yourself though.”

Oswald didn’t find it in himself to care if it was again some sort of a twisted game. There was nothing else this man could take from him now, except for his life, which wasn’t something Oswald felt like holding to at the moment. He was tired, too tired for it all. He almost didn’t remember when he didn’t feel tired last time. Or cold.

He had to do something with the crying, though, as it didn’t seem to going to stop. _And_ the shaking. He clenched his hands into fists, concentrating on catching his breath.

“Is there anything you want now? Anything I can do for you?” Oswald heard, timid concern in this voice killing him. “Or would you like me to go? I—I was planning to leave for the day anyway, so…”

And all his efforts to pull himself together were ruined with another muffled sob.

What _did_ he want from Ed? He wanted Ed to go away, to never exist, to hold him, to hurt him, all at once. He didn’t know. The thought of staying alone right now almost threw him back into panic. The shaking got worse. Oswald screw his eyes shut. Everything hurt. What a miserable mess. He couldn’t make a sound.

“Don’t.” He finally managed to mouth, the fear of Ed just getting up and leaving got the best of him.

“Right. Of course. …How do you feel about a shower?”

Oswald opened his eyes and stared at Ed. There was something new in the look of his brown eyes behind the glasses, some new degree of attention. Oswald didn’t want to know what it meant.

To say the least, he felt controversial. His last shower was God knows how long ago, in Arkham. The thought of getting naked, out of his last weak resemblance of defense which were clothes, the thought of seeing his own wretched body made him sick. The thought of hot water though wasn’t revolting as such. To wash in privacy, without other inmates looking at him… Hassling him. Touching him. He shivered. Some aftermath adrenaline was still running in his veins.

He didn’t count how much time he spent in the shower. Must’ve been hours. He wished for a bath, but this wasn’t so bad, while being as much as an _ordeal_ as he presumed. First half an hour or more he was just sitting there in the bathroom trying to bring himself to get undress. Also it took some time to finally banish the idea of Ed suddenly coming in on him from his anxious mind. Several times he had to check, the door was definitely locked. He hissed at hot water on his wounds, washing away clotted blood. Some of them were starting to fester. He didn’t bother. He has seen worse. The sight of his bare flesh disgusted him, so he just closed his eyes and let the flow caress him, relaxing under this so out of the ordinary unintimidating touch. Feeling his stiffen leg relieving some pain. Trying to dissolve into non-existence. When exhaustion finally took over him, he chose to accept that he wouldn’t _feel clean_ even if he drowns himself here. And drowing was something he grew to particulary despise.

He used remains of his strength to apply antiseptic to the cuts and patch them up. The clothes Ed bought were some simple black shirt and sweatpants. Whatever. They covered him enough. And they weren’t the uniform. It was… strange.

He took a pill from a nightstand, for the ache in his chest never really stopped bothering him, though he remembered not to inhale very deep. Now if only this marvelous advice would work for any kind of chest ache, he grimly smirked to himself, absent-mindedly. He didn’t say anything to Ed, oddly content with finding him at the kitchen table, writing something. Oswald practically fell on his bed.

Something changed, and Oswald might not note it properly, but, wrapping himself with the blanket, he was warm at last.

He slept without dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's official, your comments are my air and my food. Eternal love!
> 
> TBC soon


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to speed up! Prepare yourselves for a rollercoaster guys!

*

Oswald looked blearily from his bed as Ed put a massive bag onto a couch.

Ed had a very busy morning, which turned into even busier afternoon. But wheels were running now, every line of his scheme making its way to collide into the main event. The key part of which had yet to be arranged, and that for a change will require not only cunning, if any, but some real courage from Ed’s end. He wasn’t ready for it. But he never can be.

“What’s this, you ask…”

“I _didn’t._ ”

Ed paused, reconsidering something. That’s right, first things first.

Then from his pocket he extracted a gun. Before the hurricane of confusion on Oswald’s falling face could form into a real terror or anything worse, he handed the gun to him, grip forward. 

“It’s loaded. Check it, if you please.” Ed said.

Looking Ed in the eye, his expression impenetrable, Oswald straightened himself in the bed, took a gun with an unsteady bandaged hand and without any hesitation made a shot into opposing wall. The plastering crumbled. Ed couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you playing at?” Oswald spit, his hand with a pointed gun moving at Ed’s direction.

That’s more like it.

“I need you to have it. Consider it a motivation to hear me out.”

Oswald bit at his lower lip and narrowed his inflamed eyes, looking indeed most animated he did since the basement.

“I’m listening.”

Right away Ed found his head empty, the speech he has so scrupulously and painfully crafted gone dissipated. Oswald’s eyes cold and transparent, heavy with a thunderstorm, lightning unstriked, rainfall unshed. It was all slipping away from Ed. He had to look away. He chose to fix his gaze upon a gun. It was visibly shaking.

He struggled to remember even a word. But then the word came to him, of course, exactly the same he used to foully humiliate Oswald with. That was the point.

“There’s always a way to bring down a powerful man, Oswald.” He slowly began, trying with his life not to rush this, let it be properly heard. “One can always use some advantage, as did I. I’ve exploited your trust.”

He heard a sharp breath. Next moment there was still no bullet in his face. That was one reassuring sign.

“Whatever I was trying to prove, I’ve just proved one single thing to myself. You were right.”

Here goes.

“I need you.”

Ed heard something which sounded like a broken glass. His gaze darted involuntarily to Oswald’s face. It was distorted with a bizarre grimace. Oswald rose his free hand to his mouth, apparently trying to contain laughter which never reached his eyes. They were dead still, uncanny.

“Excuse me?” Oswald chuckled, his tone deceptively light.

“I need you to be. I need you to be who you are. Otherwise everything is just wrong and nothing makes sense. That much I know now.”

Oswald didn’t laugh anymore, his hand still covering his mouth.

“I need you, Penguin.”

Oswald run his left hand over his face before pressing it hard to the ribs, apparently unconscious of the movement. The right hand with the gun has never lowered. It was steady now, as was his breathing. His tongue momentarily licked into the split on his lower lip.

“Is that something you thought I wanted to hear?” He spoke quietly.

“It should’ve not come to what it had for me to understand this. But it had, and I cannot take it back now. I know you don’t want to hear an explanation but I owe you the truth. You do with it whatever you want. God knows I’m not yet sure what to do with it myself.” It wasn’t hard to keep his voice earnest for every word Ed spoke he had to rip with meat out of his own flesh.

“Come to _what_ , Ed? _You’ve killed me before._ ” No more than a sorrowful whisper. “Didn’t you know _then_?”

 _You know what._ There were too many words swirling in Ed’s head.

“I did. But I didn’t let myself. I missed you terribly. I lost myself. At first… I took drugs so I could talk to hallucinations of you. Then I’ve killed people trying to find you a replacement. No one matched.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud in Oswald’s face, turned stone. It almost felt good. “I reinvented myself to be free of… memories of you. And when I did, I just… I had to hold on to it. I believed I had to destroy you to keep myself intact.”

Ed knew he wasn’t making much sense. He was always so good with words, twisting them however he liked, he enjoyed playing with them, putting them in perfect structures to make intricate riddles, but now they kept slipping away through his fingers.

“But I was wrong. That was all wrong. And it took me…” _It took me to almost take you apart._ He has said so much already, but he couldn’t say that. And Oswald looked like whatever way Ed was going to finish that sentence would send him dead to the bottom of the river once more. Whatever way Ed was going to finish that sentence? “Then and there, I just knew I got the whole idea wrong. All this time, and you continue to teach me.” He was missing something. He was messing this up.

“Now _that’s_ the talk long forgotten!” Oswald scoffed, raising his brows in amusement, as fake as he made Ed feel all his being to the core.

There was something in his throat that kept him from speaking, and before he managed Oswald continued with a sigh.

“Nevermind. Honestly, Ed... Riddler, whoever you are… As flattered as I am if slaughtering my humble persona serves beneficial to your improvement… I can’t even begin to care if you are telling the truth, or just some tall tales to use me again. It doesn’t matter, you see. Whatever you may or may not need, is nothing of my concern.” All life was gone from his voice by the end of this.

“I don’t know you.”

Ed stared into the abyss of fury unborn. Oswald’s face.

“Go. Now.” An order followed. “Before I give in to temptation and shoot you.”

Ed left the apartment without a sound.

*

Alone in the room, Oswald lowered a gun.

His shoulders dropped. He waited for tears to come but they didn’t. That’s new, isn’t it. Oswald let out a long, dry wail. It scratched his throat. It lasted and lasted until the sting in his chest became insufferable enough. He buried a face in his hands. Swellings under his palms. He let his fingers draw a line across it, left cheekbone, jaw, then moved down to bruises on his neck, pressing at them gently. Fingers sneak under his shirt, under the patches, ruining them, spreading away the edges of his cuts, studying, feeling, counting each and every one, brushing along his broken ribs. There are more injuries further down. Fingers stop right below his stomach. He never felt more betrayed.

And he knew betrayal up and down, like you know an old friend. Quite literally so, as it happens.

But this was a whole new level.

His body betrayed him first. It felt alien to him for some time now, like a moldering shell, not fitting at the edges, a constant nuisance, constraining, itching, making him hunch and want to violently shake it off and watch it lying on the floor in a deformed heap.

He was alone. He made Ed leave.

From the first words escaped Ed’s mouth he knew he couldn’t bear this.

How many times did he imagine hearing this?

He didn’t count, cataloguing everything was always Ed’s thing.

_I missed you. I lost myself. I took drugs so I could talk to hallucinations of you. I’ve killed people trying to find you a replacement. No one matched._

The devastating mockery he was thrown in. The grotesque carnivalish travesty of everything he didn’t even allow himself to hope for, hiding this hope in the most concealed, most sacred place of his soul to never look at but always know it’s there, an aching undertone of whole his existence.

Now exposed to the cruel blinding spotlights, spilled up with his guts on the arena for the ridiculing audience to stare at and throw rotten fruit.

Applause. Laughter. A bow.

_You need me, Edward Nygma._

_I need you, Riddler_.

 _The only person_ needy _here is you._

_I need you._

The degrading parody. The ugly caricature.

Ed left to never return.

It welled him up, emptied his every bone hollow, crushed his spine. 

He remembered he was supposed to breathe slowly, and the sound of Ed measuredly inhaling and exhaling for him to follow filled his ears. There was nothing he could hold on to, not a single thing.

It was when his eyes caught the bag on the couch. Unopened it stayed.

Oswald blinked a couple of times.

He needed a distraction. He feared what he might find there.

_He needed a distraction._

Oswald scrambled himself from the bed and approached the couch cautiously. What could be in there?

 _A bomb?_ Stupid.

Shakily, he reached a bag and opened the zipper up. His blood-stained fingers touched something soft and delicate.

Inside, there were a few things, which Oswald extracted one by one, turning his head off and going fully automatic about it. He laid them out on a couch.

Black wool two-piece cutaway suit with split tail and two decorative buttons at the waist, a single button fastening the front. Black silk French cuff shirt. Cut-velvet vest with elaborate basketweave pattern, mostly tyrian purple with some other shades. Black jacquard-woven silk puff tie. Burgundy leather gloves. Black shoes. A pair of silver umbrella-shaped cufflinks. A cane with a silver penguin knob, a knife concealed in there. Long coat with black and wine stripes and a giant fur collar.

The one he killed Theo Galavan in. _And shoved an umbrella deep down his throat._

A bottle of his favorite cologne.

Finally, hear gel.

_Hear gel._

Oswald looked at the display before him as though he saw these things for the first time in his life and he couldn’t even guess who they belonged to.

Maybe some person he knew so long ago he wouldn’t now recognize his face.

Then he leaned on the back of the couch.

Then he started to undress.

Some minutes of quite excruciating exercise later he was examining this stranger in the mirror.

The costume was more dandy than he would chose lately, before Arkham, that is. In the days of Pax Penguina and following he would usually go with something simpler and more formal, businesslike. Nevertheless, Oswald had to admit it felt somehow appropriate in a whole, and the vest was a nice touch.

He spent some time styling his hair, and got captivated with the process to the point of creating some kind of a new shape. He let his band lie flat across his forehead and set the hair at the back sticking up in pointy strands. Like a crown.

He missed his makeup, but the state his face was in, it was useless to say the least. If anything, it would only manage to transform it in some weird mask. _More weird than usual._

He wasn’t sure what to make of the person in the mirror.

The person looked… extravagant. Exquisite. Bold. There was a dramatic flair to it. There was a sharp tone of wild danger to it. Even the injuries acutely standing off on the person’s paper-white face somehow only highlighted the… One had to say _grandeur_.

The person wasn’t someone who would let Jerome Valeska to sit him on his lap and _touch_.

_There’s always a way to bring down a powerful man._

It was a person who would rise from the ashes more vigorous than he was before, again and again and _again_ , no matter the cost, no matter the scars.

Who was it?

_I need you, Penguin._

Oswald looked at the person in the mirror and realized that he needed him, too.

That moment the entrance door swung open.

_Ed?.._

At the doorstep was standing Victor Zsasz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand here Zsasz comes! :))))
> 
> As usual, thank you everyone for your wonderful comments and kudos, I live for them.  
> I enjoyed writing this chapter very much and I hope you enjoyed reading it!  
> Please share your thoughts and feelings with a feedback-longing author <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, it's 4 AM here, and I have no exuse. It's been some time, longer than usual, I'm kinda out of practise, life happened to me, and I have only a short chapter to share with you, but I FINALLY wrote it and really want to share, especially because events starting to escalate quickly. And then maybe you were worried about Zsazs and Oz meeting? So, here goes some plot.  
> I hope you'll enjoy, dears!

"Hey, Ex-Boss!" That's all what Zsasz managed to say before he had to bend down for the Penguin took an almost instant shot in his direction. That speed might’ve bettered Zsasz's own. Zsasz was quickly back up with his empty hands very definitively _up, too._

"Whoa—whoa—whoa..." He chuckled softly. "Don't be so touchy, you haven't heard the news yet!" Victor almost sang.

"What news, Zsasz? _Traitor._ " Oswald blurted back, unnecessary high-pitched, his aim firmly on Zsasz's bold head but he’s not shooting.

"Yeah, about that. Well.” If that were possible at all, Oswald had to say that Zsasz hesitated for a second. “ _The word came out_ that Sofia had Don _murdered_."

"Oh," Oswald breathed out involuntarily, gradually encompassing the whole meaning of the statement. He tried vigourosly with sorry reminders of his last strength to compose himself under Victor’s glare, as usually detached yet inspective, tried to mold his weak, crushed, frankly pathetic self into the role of someone confident, powerful and _secure_. Things were happening far too quickly. My, did he truly think he could hide under the blanket in this cheap flat forever from all of this? From the whole of _Gotham_? Stupid. Focus. _Focus._

"W— What? So… you believe me _now_?"

"Since there are evidence. Not your usual angry blabbing. Sorry, Ex-Boss, but you _would_ say anything."

Zsazs's whole demeanor changed somehow and he didn't look mocking at all anymore.

"Can’t have it." Zsasz spitted, his dark eyes shone with something Oswald spotted in there on Carmine’s funeral, never before and never after that day. "Not a _patricide_."

"Well, of course!" Oswald almost cried out in exasperation, not able or willing to contain it. "But you are _such a bastard_!"

Victor only so much as smiled back at this, studying Penguin’s appearance without any particular expression.

"You know, love the new look. Rough _and_ groovy. She toyed with all of us. I say let's go hit her."

"You… You are calling for _me_ after _this_?" What was the real reason behind Zsasz suddenly proclaiming he wanted an alliance? Was it a game, and then who was the main player?

"Damn right I'm calling for you, Ex-Boss," Victor’s smile became an infuriating full-blown grin, all-teeth. "I like to have _every_ chance I can get and I have it by your side."

Oswald totally wasn't sure if it was meant as an insult or as a compliment and he was rarely sure on that part with Zsasz.

"So how do we get her in her own manor? You bring me inside, this nice old way, I presume? And I should go _voluntarily_ so you can what? Sell me off to Sofia again?"

“Look, Ex-Boss, Sofia wanted your guts over the floor,” Zsasz rolled his eyes and Penguin felt his jaw clenching over the image. “Would I go into trouble with _talking_? Besides she _just_ left to some weird role-play senior home thing to get Penn, so I suggest time to move.”

Penn, now. Oswald thought this through again and again and _again_ in a heated rush, his head was dizzy, he usually is faster than this, _fuck_. He felt that there was something he was missing from the communication which would most likely kill him.

“You said, a word... Came out. From where?” He demanded at last, his arm with a gun still spread forward to Victor’s direction.

“Nygma showed up.” Zsasz shrugged. “Said he had evidence on Falcone. Proper witness. And well, yeah, he knows where boy is. And boy knows everything, right?”

Something you can only describe as a wave of wild horror swept Penguin.

_The boy._

Oswald leant heavily on his cane.

The fool he was these last days, he should’ve _made_ Ed tell where Martin was, he should’ve took care of his safety _first thing_ , but he was too busy bloody moping, wasn’t he, he let it slip, and now…

And a whole new stage of mistrust rose in him.

 _This isn't getting better,_ he thought to himself in the poor attempt of a joke on underestimation at which he usually excelled, or maybe just to state the simple fact.

“And where is Mr. Nygma himself?” Oswald asked slowly.

“Well, Nygma got captured. Always one true way to get on the inside. But he didn’t have back up.”

 _Could this day get any more perfect?_ The poisoned voice in his head hissed, and truthfully he felt some relief in it. The voice of anger he could usually steady himself upon when there was nothing else left, but lately there was left almost nothing of it, too.

_So I'm trapped into it, ain't I._

_And what_ on earth _is Nygma’s_ fucking _angle—_

“Earth to Ex-Boss,” Zsasz looked _extremely_ bored, even for himself, and he still tried in honest not to move his arms hanging in the air. “You keep your gun! But I'll have to hold your fancy cane for you or Sofia may spy trouble. She doesn’t know _shit_ yet whatever you’re thinking.”

Something sparkled inside Penguin. A gun was good enough for taking a chance, wasn’t it. It’s not that he could opt himself to go and sleep in bed now even if it was all he wanted. It seemed he would have to wait and see for Victor’s true allegiance to reveal itself, but even if it was a set up, and it _was_ a set up, Oswald was just too distracted and tired and in pain to figure out of what kind, but in any case, he _had a gun_ , after all. He managed to succeed with far less. Something spoke with him through all this conjunction of events, some familiar kind of thrill crept its way inside his exhausted soul despite _everything_.

And he couldn’t bring himself to think about Martin _or_ Ed, so he will just have to solve one problem at a time. Or whatever comes next that he will have to do.

“So, whenever I need my cane _back_ , I'll just...” Oswald began, looking pointedly Victor in the eye.

“Ask for it.” He finished the sentence with a smirk.

“Well, that’s going to be your clue, Victor.” Oswald concluded matter-of-factly, and added: ”One condition.”

“I know, Ex-Boss. She’s not dying fast.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know about you but I adore Zsazs and their dynamics with Oz and I was bursting with happiness when realized I could get them working together again. Also, Ed, huh? Please let me know what you think, I missed discussing this with you (and I'll properly reply all the comments tomorrow, I swear, right after getting some sleep at last). 
> 
> Thank you deeply for comments and kudos, sending love!  
> Happy autumn to y'all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back again! Sorry for the delay :)  
> I've updated tags a little bit due to Sofia's short intrusion in the story, and that kind of thing will happen again along the road.  
> Please enjoy!

Riddler could make a distance with his pain. He loved this ability of his consciousness even if it meant he could make a distance with practically everything and that usually left him alone imprisoned inside his own head. Riddler always played with his head where Oswald would lose himself wholeheartedly. Yet, sometimes it proved useful, the ability to install a transparent wall between him and something, dissociate himself to a point when you don’t feel anything. For example, now. Now when there was a drill in his mouth. His mind generated riddles non-stop and that was real fun. Funny. Never funny. But…

“I can be humorous, but I’m never funny! What am I?”

Then there was a sharp metal stick in his leg.

Ed was mildly disappointed. Sofia was supposed to go get Penn herself, yet instead she chose to send some one-eyed hired muscle, which meant that cleverly arranged meeting with GSPD _and_ Lee went to dogs. Still, Edward had another card up his sleeve. He was almost sure he had. 

“Tell me where he is.” Sofia told him leaning to his ear. Private space, anyone? In all the _fucking_ Gotham…

“I _am_ telling you, you are just too _stupid_ to figure it out!”

God, that _was_ hilarious. He could continue _ages_.

“Miss Falcone, you’ve got a visitor.”

“Kind of in the middle of something!”

Ed smelled that spicy cologne he himself took from the mansion this very morning, a couple of seconds before he heard a silky menacing voice.

_“Sofia, always such a pleasure.”_

Ed laughed in open mouth, bloody all over.

Sofia promptly got up, forgetting about the Riddler, and moved towards the guest.

“So, my dear friend,” She chirped casually as if they met at some social charity event. “What brings you here… alone?”

“Why of course, Victor here…” A court gesture to Zsasz. “…brought me. He is such a driving force, isn’t he.”

Victor nodded and hummed in agreement. Ed could feel the way Oswald was just a little bit less bold than usual and could imagine the amount of strength it took Oswald to keep his flamboyant appearance through pain and exhaustion.

“Bring him to the pier and kill him.” Sofia said half-mindedly, referring Ed. Of course, she ever needed Ed only as means to get to the Penguin. And now she owns him anyway.

“Stop it! May I suggest” Oswald cried out briskly and that sounded like two shots without a pause. He smiled, tight-lipped. “I am afraid Mr. Riddler here costs more than you think.”

“Well-well, Oswald.” Ed muttered to himself in exhilaration.

Sofia lifted her elegant brow.

“Interesting. Does he, now?”

Oswald’s air was once again light now; he seemed amused and sort of distracted.

“You know, my dear, it was _such_ a tiring day. Will you care to propose your guest a sit?”

“Get to the point, Oswald,” she hissed.

“I thought not.” Oswald waved his tied hands dismissively. “Then maybe… at least my cane to lean on?”

Next few things happened almost momentarily.

Victor Zsasz threw Oswald’s cane to him across the room. Oswald caught it and extracted the blade and thrust it Sofia in the eye, his ropes somehow falling to the floor, as Victor made four quick shots across the room and Sofia’s goons and the Dentist were all on the floor. Sofia _howled_. It could be more reasonable to just go with a gun but God wasn’t blade satisfying. It was very much so and before he knew it Oswald took a blade out and in her chest and then stomach several times, blood splitting on his face, his breath becoming frantic, hurting, chest stinging, periphery of eyesight going red and forehead flaming, in sweat. Then Sofia’s eyes went blank.

It was so beautiful. He was so beautiful.

Ed licked his lips as he met Oswald’s eyes subdued in dark sticky chaos.

“I thought that supposed to be slow.” Victor commented, deadpan as ever. “But now, Boss, we’re heading out.”

“Victor,” Oswald said, overly self-conscious and suddenly sobered from a blood high. “I need a few moments.”

“Of course you do. Use it wise, we don’t have long. I’m watching the door.”

Oswald wouldn’t _begin_ to grasp what _that_ was. No matter.

At times like this Oswald remembers how the gunshot deafened him and he fell into the cold water, and then he swam as far as he would manage and he didn't feel the pain in his leg because he was agonizing from shock with his all being, he could very well die from that alone, and he tried so hard to just _move,_ not to stay still and let those waters swallow him and put an end to everything, even if he didn’t remember why on earth he would want _this_ to last any second longer.

Ed stared at him, blood still streaming scarlet from his triumphantly smiling mouth. They were torturing him. Oswald considered his features childish. He was grateful he had his cane to steady himself upon.

Oswald looked at Ed with that fully focused, undivided intense attention only hallucination-Oswald used to before.

“I hope you liked the clothes,” Ed offered at last. “Less of a gangster, more of an Edwardian gentleman, but I figured it’ll fit. Looks every bit you.”

“Cut it.” Oswald had to close his eyes for a moment. “ _You…_ ” He hissed. “You made Martin a pawn again. You almost got yourself killed!”

“And that was your only chance! He is not in danger. Admit it, Oswald, it was a great plan, and it _worked_! You had your revenge, hadn’t you?”

“You are _unbelievable_. I'll _gut_ you if something happened to Martin.”

“Again, he is safe. I’ve ensured this. He is in foster facility quite far away from Gotham. Different name, Martin ceased to exist. At any time you can know the address but I advise not to just yet. Safer this way. Meanwhile you can contact him through transferring…”

“I let it slide one time with Zsasz!” Oswald shouted, splattered blood across his face adding up to his freckles. Victor half-shrugged silently at this, still keeping his watch. “I ended up in Arkham _again_. And what may you _want_ from these… agent services, Edward?”

“What rich need…”

“And if you eat it you'll die.” Oswald continued bitterly, without giving it a second thought.

“You owe me nothing. I’d help you anyway, that’s it.”

“Oh that's bullshit, Ed! Ain't I know it. No favors.” He spitted every word with hate. ”No secrets. No strings.”

“So you demand the address.”

Leaning heavily on his cane, Oswald crossed the room to Ed, surprisingly quick, and leant very close to his face, baring his teeth in a predatory fleer.

“Yes, Ed. I _demand_.”

Ed could see in perfect detail fresh delicate skin tissue which started to cover injuries on Oswald’s face. He inhaled Oswald’s smell, never able to resist the urge whenever distance allowed, though he knew some would consider the habit weird.

“Fine, but I would recommend you to wait with an actual visit.”

Feeling Oswald’s warm shallow breath oddly intimate on his cheek, Ed whispered a couple of words in his ear, and immediately after Oswald straightened himself up and jerked away as if from fire, pulling down the hem of his suit.

“Well, now. What’s your _game_?”

No _games_ from now on, Ed had to remind himself. Sincerity was the only option.

“I want to be true to something, Oswald. To someone, in this case.”

There was a pause when nobody so much as breathed. Except for Zsasz, of course, he was doing all right.

“I believe I have to or I will destroy everything. I've destroyed enough as it is.”

The flow of rage overcame Oswald to the point of ringing in his ears, he wasn’t sure where he was or what was happening anymore, the one thing which mattered was that he gets to yell into this smug face.

_“You'll find me much more difficult to destroy.”_

“I should hope so. I didn't mean you. That is not my intention. Not anymore. Not ever.”

“I don't care about your _intentions_!”

“Oswald, _breathe._ ”

Oswald found himself gasping as if the walls of freezing water have just let him out on the surface. He almost felt the crushing hunger that came afterwards. He would have _killed_ for a sandwich. 

“Yeah, Boss, sorry to interrupt family counseling but we really should…”

“Thank you, Victor!” Oswald all but shrieked. He had to suppress bile rising up in his throat and chose to ignore Zsasz’s appalling attitude, as always. For one thing, all thoughts of food were gone in a moment.

“No, Ed, I'm afraid we're quite done. As for _nothing_ , let's say we owe _nothing_ to each other. If the whereabouts of the boy are correct, and you better _pray_ he is still there, I see no reason to ever interact again. Don't get on my way.”

With that, Oswald cut Ed’s ropes with his blade, swift and precise, not looking at him, then turned around, and limped through the room. He lingered to bend to the floor with humiliatingly visible difficulty and place a kiss on the forehead of Sofia’s butchered corpse. He used all his willpower not to slam the door after himself, minding Victor, who watched the previous ceremony with grim satisfaction.

“Take care.” Zsasz winked to Ed, and they were gone.

But Oswald’s stare stayed with the Riddler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in my mind this wraps up the first part of this journey, but it's not by any means an end. More to come!  
> If you spare a minute to let me know what you think, I love you to the moon and back <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo nobody expected Spanish Inquisition! We are back.  
> Sorry everyone for such a sudden hiatus. But if I hate something it's unfinished stories, and I firmly intend to finish this one. I kinda have the whole thing planned through.  
> Hope there are still some readers around!

After Ed killed Oswald, he almost immediately discovered it wasn’t a proper way to get rid of him. At first, he wasn’t a hallucination as such. There was just that constant flow of words. Everything that Ed ever wanted to say to Oswald but didn’t for the bunch of different reasons. No time, seems stupid, seems useless, hurts too much. Now it was all erupting from him, not unlike projectile vomiting, and he was unable to stop it. Despite the fact that there was no one to hear it anymore, or maybe because of this fact exactly. At first, they were just thoughts. Endless train which someone seemed to put on the loop. He didn’t notice when he started to say those things out loud. He tried to gain some sense, to come to some conclusion, to put parts of a puzzle in the right pattern, but nothing satisfied him. He kept losing ends, overwhelmed; consistency of his logical layouts kept slipping through his fingers as if in a dream. He was sure that if he managed to put together a coherent frame for all that happened and all he felt, a whirl of words in his head would calm down. But it didn’t work. Any amount of meticulously elaborated speeches, either vengeful or reconciling, simply won’t make any difference without the person who might actually reply.

When this idea became painfully obvious even to Ed’s fogged mind, was apparently the point when Oswald started to talk back.

Oh, Ed just knew what Penguin would say, didn’t he? The bastard was all too predictable. Not only his point, but phrasing, every last nuance of tone. Ed had an absolute auditory memory and could replay songs and voices in his head, as if he was actually hearing them, which invested a great deal into his musical skills.

And, well, speaking the truth, while Penguin was... was alive, Ed paid an inappropriate lot of attention to his voice. For a time being, he did enjoy those tone nuances, velvet coarseness, even high pitched occasions. Oswald had his unique manner of making a most simple phrase an exquisite theatrical little jewel, as someone who once decided to refine his voice in a sophisticated power gaining instrument and succeeded. Someone, who once decided to stand off the surrounding dirt with his eloquent speech, as well.

But not only that, it was something of a habit Ed had as long as he remembered himself. To pay close attention to people’s way of expressing themselves. Especially close ones. He felt the need to constantly track a change of underlining emotions, as if to be always prepared for what a person may say or do next.

And surely Penguin could throw quite a rollercoaster ride in that regard.

Ed was a fast learner, as was he eager, so in time he studied all the tricks. Or he thought so, anyway, except for he had to find out that they haven’t lost their magic over him nevertheless. Well, any average magic school student could have warned him of this. Even so, Ed managed to win it through on that peer, under that rain, when Oswald cried and reached out for him, and then... And then Ed longed to be sure it _was_ a win, but his initial certainty was inexorably fading.

So, Ed knew exactly what Oswald would reply, and he could hear it so vividly, as if his former friend was standing in front of him. He wasn’t, though. Ed was all alone, generating those endless, fruitless, miserable conversations. So, so alone. When Ed felt he couldn’t bear it anymore, he went for an enterprise of acquiring pills from one infamous Gotham pharmacologist, who always had to offer to an afflicted soul some medication off label, so to speak. Pills did help, but in a somewhat unexpected way. Ed remembers the first time he saw Oswald, pale, with soft, squishy rotten skin, wet from top to toe, shivering from cold. Ed felt so happy he cried. He got a long ridiculing tirade in return, and then cried some more.

In some ways, current situation resembled that one. Ed kept speaking to himself in circles, in absence of real Oswald to address to. He couldn’t stop himself, his brain continued to invent explanations, apologies, accusations, questions, confessions, alternately and sometimes at once. But, in the other hand, this time around the situation was obviously very much not the same.

For main thing, Oswald was alive. That, no denial, was a considerable difference.

In addition to replaying everything what happened between them and thinking how things could’ve been in occasions of countless “ifs”, Ed now could compose elaborate plans how to fix everything. There _was_ a future. Even if _there wasn’t one, because Ed ruined it for both of them_.

Because Oswald doesn’t know who Ed is anymore, and in that case, who on Earth knows?

In some ways, dead Oswald was easier to bear with.

Of course, Ed realized the best would be to keep away from Oswald, just like the latter explicitly insisted. But he just had to redirect his mind into a practical area, in order to keep it from eating itself alive. Then, there would be no harm if Ed would keep an eye on Penguin just to make sure he doesn’t get himself in some sort of too unpleasant troubles. He also wasn’t sure the whole protégé boy business was totally resolved. Better be safe than sorry. And once this part would be taken under the most unobtrusive supervision, he could finally turn to exiting new projects. Maybe a club? Ed thought some intellectual live show with interesting prizes, betting and a touch of danger. Though, to be honest, for now nothing new even remotely interested Ed, let alone exited.

And then the great Arkham escape broke.

Back in the Narrows Ed had a secret army. A spy net of homeless boys—an idea he borrowed from childhood criminal novel readings and was sort of proud of. They proved to be an immense help in finding information where adults would be spotted, exposed and put out from a game. In his spare time Ed found himself holding some kind of irregular school for them, teaching little shits math, reading and spelling. He even tried to motivate them to seek the light of knowledge by inventing games and competitions. To his slight annoyance, he discovered, that money worked better as a reward for sneaking, than a really great set of encyclopedias.

It was no trouble to whisper a word to paperboy on the corner, and soon the whole scum band was at his service.

That is why, when Jerome Valeska freed a legion of Arkham kooks, Ed already held his hand on the city pulse. Most importantly, he knew the Penguin retired to his mansion in peace. Somehow being a dangerous fugitive didn’t seem to affect his position. Ed strongly suspected they somehow conspired with Gordon again. Oswald showed him Martin or something. Then, next thing Ed knew, Gotham subdued to total chaos. What is one humble former kingpin, prone to cooperation with police and by the way a proud owner of a sanity certificate, when several dozens actual loonies flood city streets? When Jarvis Tech puts half of the city on rooftops, ready to jump?

Monitoring the unfolding mess, Ed suddenly even felt a spark of inspiration. Such times are perfect for cleverly arranged endeavors, at which he excelled like no one in this dumphole of a city. A glorious opportunity for Riddler indeed.

But before Riddler could properly put his mind into it, his gamin intelligence team produced disturbing news, which swiftly returned his attention to that relatively sane kingpin of his.

It seemed the Valeska band with a couple of guest starring freaks made their headquarters at Van Dahl’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please share your thoughts and feels I missed them <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Jerome Valeska makes an appearance.

“Hear ye, hear ye! I'd like to welcome you all at our first ever mandatory brunch meeting.”  
  
Oswald was sitting with a very straight spine, as if this effort to keep a posture was the one thing that kept him from falling apart all together. And maybe it was. His fingers were white under burgundy gloves, resting on the knob of his cane. He was dressed to the nines, even more than usual. Hair perfectly styled, make up bold, decisively making the straight spine the only straight thing about his look. That’s how he kept his attire every day now from the last time he changed from Arkham uniform. But today was an extra special occasion.  
  
Mandatory brunch meeting.  
  
To distract himself from Jerome’s shrill voice, Oswald looked at the table, where preposterous paper signs with names were standing in front of each guest. Tetch’s idea, of course, which Jerome welcomed enthusiastically, obviously thinking it would add class to their miserable gathering of psychos. In that line, poor degenerate Carl, uncomfortable in his tight suit, was trying to serve the table, desperately struggling with tongs.  
  
What a circus.  
  
There were two empty places at the table on both sides of Jerome. One was reserved for the top-hat freak with rhyming obsession, who was late, busy with some important trouble-making.  
The name on the other one Oswald couldn’t see from the opposite side of table.   
When he tried to look at it earlier, limping by to take his chair, Jerome swiftly hid the sign with his palm. Oswald almost jerked away from the sudden movement.

“Ts-ts, this guest suppose to be a surprise!”   
  
Oswald didn’t like how that sounded. Then again, there was not a thing about the whole disposition he did like.

It was bad enough living in mansion alone.

Every morning Oswald made himself get up from bed and took his time to meticulously dress up, making a strict ritual of it. Among other things, it was something to busy himself with. Helped him to pass hours, inexplicably long and empty in his huge, cold family house. Not that Oswald truly enjoyed the process itself, he seemed to forget entirely how enjoyment tasted these days, but there was something consoling and calming about it. It helped him compose himself, at least for some period of day, even if he knew that teatime will most probably find him curling up in some corner with his mascara totally ruined.  
  
Afternoons were worst. Every room in the mansion bore its own array of stories, which started to envelop and drown him whenever he walked through. He didn’t know how he made peace with it when he lived here before his second Arkham. They bothered him, but somehow not _that_ much. Of course, most happy memories he couldn’t stand even then, but now they were liquid poison injecting in his veins.

  
So he made his citadel in his father’s bedroom, which he kept as it was since Elija’s death and never used for anything, only coming here now and then to grieve in peace. Ironically now it became the most safe place in house, the place where he could remember acceptance and consolation once offered, so unconditionally and so fleetingly.

  
And, most importantly, it was the only room free of invisible, all-pervading, everlasting presence of Ed.

He'd got accustomed to missing Ed. It grew on him in time to the point of becoming a part of his personality—a constant ache in his chest, not unlike that broken rib, which he now almost didn’t feel by the way. Sometimes less pronounced, when he could almost forget it was there, never entirely, thought. Sometimes sharp, like a stab, getting to him suddenly, interrupting whatever he was doing with an instant urge to fold in two and gasp. While it tortured him immensely at first, now It was familiar, like the pain in his leg, it made him who he was. There might not be Edward Nygma without Penguin, but there was no Penguin without missing Edward Nygma. So they were even.  
  
Who could’ve thought he would miss missing Ed.

He hadn’t got this luxury now. Last remains of what he might consider, however twisted that was, a home inside his heart, an inner place where he might take a refuge, were now taken away. A mere thought of Ed threw him deep down into the sump of shame, sticky and stinking and excruciating. Over and over again he found himself in that basement, naked and trembling and pathetic, unable to defend himself, _ready_ to do everything Ed... wasn’t even himself ready to proceed to, as it turned out. Was it because Oswald was _that_ disgusting? Was it because...

  
Somewhere around here he usually shot down and poured himself another drink, trying his best not to throw up, and sometimes not succeeding. Rarely was he sober, having his first brandy for breakfast.

There was some urgent business he had to attend to straightaway after killing Sofia. That bought him several days of not wallowing in tedious desolation.

Firstly, Martin. Secondly, Gordon.

Oswald had to check if the boy was really in that orphanage Nygma named, and then he had to contact Gordon and restore his good name, or whatever was left of it to start with. Soon enough though he found out he couldn’t leave his doorstep without his throat going completely dry and a head-blowing heartbeat, so he made Zsasz his errand boy, bold and covered in leather kind of errand boy. Thank God main Oswald’s assets were kept quite secure, that area providently taken care of long ago, in case of any emergency he might face. He foresaw they would be many, and he wasn’t wrong. So, for an appropriate reward, Victor did both jobs impeccably, as always. Oswald learned with crushing wave of relief that one curly-haired mute boy, named now in officcial documentation for mysterious reasons Ignatius Ogilvy, lived peacefully with a bunch of nuns, a long drive away from Gotham.

Oswald pushed from his mind the notion that Ed was true to his word.

Information about the boy, along with Victor changing his statements, more than satisfied Jim, not to mention how did the fact of untimely, inconsolable death of Gotham’s most generous benefactor, a friend of all orphans and indigent. Of course, there couldn’t be any proof Oswald Cobblepot had any relation to that tragic event. Unofficially, though, Jim counted it as a public service, not to mention a personal one.

After settling his affairs, Oswald hid in safety of his house, using assistance of hired help for anything he needed, which was mostly booze.

And there hasn't been a single place in the whole world where he felt even vaguely safe, since Jerome Valeska tapped at his door.

“Now I know what you're all thinking.”

_Do you, now?_

“Why have I gathered this legion of horribles? That has a nice ring to it. Write that down, will ya?”

Oswald twitched his shoulders involuntarily. On his left, Mr. Freeze emanated cold, making him grateful for his decision to go with fur today. On his right, a straw-stuffed bugaboo breathed as if he smoked non-stop at least for a couple of centuries. Carl gave up on tongs and offered a toast in his bare hand; Oswald refused with a gracious gesture. Horribles, aren’t they.

“Well,” Jerome continued, unmoved by overall luck of reaction from the congregation, “back when I was in Arkham, I came up with a plan to turn this city into a madhouse. And now I am on the cusp of making it happen. But I'll need help from all of...”

Freeze rose a hand.

“Put all questions on ice until the end. Danke shoen. Mr. Oswald.”

It took a considerable amount of effort not to flinch. Oh, it’s _Mr. Oswald_ now. Sort of boring, a new kind of mockery after the style of addressing Penguin _almost_ got used to. He loathed that he felt flattered with it on certain level.

He was nearly grateful to doll-play fixated Tetch for placing them so far away from each other at the table.

“Thank you for doing your part in hosting us today.”

Oswald managed a dignified court nod and squeezed out between gritted teeth:

  
“Anything for an old friend.”

“Huh!” Jerome exclaimed, full of fake jubilation, his gaze darted somewhere behind Freeze. ”Funny you said so, cause today one true friend’s reunion gonna happen!”

Following his look, Oswald turned his head in the same direction, trying to suppress a shiver, as if someone walked over his grave.

And then he wished for one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am eternally grateful for your comments <3


End file.
